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Instead, a meshwork of metallic lines crisscross my otherwise perfect skin like a tattoo.
“You’re branded now,” he says, casually, as if the agony I just lived through means nothing. As if I’m livestock. “There’s nowhere you can hide where we cannot find you, so don’t even think about running.”
I drag my gaze from my arm to his face, making sure the disgust and hatred in my expression is clear. “You’re a monster. You could have at least warned me.”
“If you think I’m bad, just wait until the academy.” There’s something about the way he says this that rubs under my skin. Like this is all some big joke.
“Looking forward to it,” I assert. Even though I am definitely not looking forward to it. “Will you be there?”
There’s no way to tell his age behind his shadowy mask. Even if I could make out his face, Evermore are immortal.
“Why?” There’s a whisper of amusement in his gruff voice. “Looking forward to that, too?”
“Looking forward to repaying your unkindness. And if I find this Winter Prince, well, he should pray I never do.” As soon as the words leave my big mouth, I cringe.
Yes, Summer, threaten a magical being who could turn you to ice and then melt you for fun. Grand idea. Better yet, threaten a Fae prince.
The Fae seems to agree. “I promise, you do not want to see me again. Keep your head down and your mortal lips shut, if that’s even possible, and you might just survive us.”
With that ominous warning, he bends down, plucks my lollipops from the ground—bastard!—and then turns on his heels and strides away.
Wrapped in a layer of shock, I watch him go. Watch his ice-blue cloak drag quietly over the snow, his tall form framed by the snow-heavy trees and illuminated by the too-big moon.
The moment I lose sight of him, reality bursts my nice little bubble and smacks me in the face. My anger, too, has faded with my tormentor. Stripped of that powerful emotion, my physical condition becomes impossible to ignore. Violent tremors thrash my body, my jaw locked together like a steel trap.
A brave look informs me my fingers are an alarming shade of purple.
Purple is way worse than red.
Staggering to my feet, I somehow make myself walk as the pain in my frostbitten limbs explodes, nearly overtaking my senses.
But it’s nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
Four years? I’m supposed to survive four whole years with the Fae, and then somehow pay for my freedom . . . with what, exactly?
More importantly, how will my family survive without me?
A potent mixture of horror and dread floods my slushy veins, and for a moment . . . a single frosty breath, I imagine laying down and giving myself to the cold and fear and frustration.
A snowy tomb seems better than what awaits me at this academy.
Something bumps into my leg, hard, and begins to purr. Chatty Cat. He meows up at me with a look like, c’mon already, let’s blow this joint.
Chatty Cat yanks me out of my pity party so hard I get whiplash.
Pity is for fools and beggars, and you are neither, Summer. I grind my jaw and picture my parents, the years I spent on the streets. The icy Fae bastard thinks I can’t survive one overhyped academy of puffed-up immortals, but he doesn’t know all I’ve already overcome.
Whatever happens, whatever they do to me, I can withstand it. I have to.
Determined to ignore the pain, I go back to the business of collecting the neverapples. My hungry, frozen body complains, but the promise of bringing real food home spurs me on.
My life might have just ended, but no reason the others have to starve.
5
Aunt Zinnia hums the tune for Dynasty as she bends over a baking pan, testing the doneness of her cornbread. Despite the heat, she wears a fuzzy pink and blue robe with cat faces. Her frizzy honey-gold curls are captured in a clawed clip, but a few have escaped and stick out at weird angles.
The window above the sink is open, the chorus of insect chirps mixing with the low static hum of the TV. Moths and June bugs swarm over the outdated brass light fixture centered on the water-stained ceiling.
